The Case of the Melissa Candida [WIP]

The ceiling fan spun slowly and wobbled back and forth. Its oscillations were quiet, yet audible. Frank slowly opened his eyes. He watched the fan during his slow, thoughtless return to consciousness. His head felt heavy and throbbed with a familiar pain. He knew immediately that he'd made a mistake. He murmured an expletive to his past self as he groped for the bourbon bottle that he knew was on his bedside table. Sitting up in bed, he took a deep draw off of the bottle. It was much less full than he remembered. After taking a few deep breaths and wiping the excess spirit from his lips, Frank bolstered himself, stood up and stumbled toward the bathroom.

He splashed some cold water on his face and fought the strong urge to vomit. He'd just drank the last of his whiskey and this morning and he couldn't afford to waste it. Looking up from his wash basin, he observed himself in the mirror. The scruffy man who stared back at him looked like shit. He had dark circles under his unfocused, bloodshot eyes, thick salt and pepper stubble circling his rugged jaw line and strong chin and his hair was an overgrown mess. He ran his wet fingers through his hair, worked in some waxy pomade and did his best to tame his hair with his comb. He considered shaving, but decided that it simply wasn't worth it today and walked back into his bedroom to get dressed in his shabby brown suit. Completing his ensemble, Frank placed his crinkled fedora atop his head and his snub nose .38 in his chest holster. Frank took one last look at himself in the full length mirror on his way out the door. He was a private investigator with a drinking problem and today he looked the part.

* * *

Frank had sat alone in his messy office all morning. Work was slow and his last case involved finding out who was stealing an old cat lady's newspaper. As it turned out, nobody had been at all. She was senile and had run behind on her payments to the paper company, who had finally cut off her service. To make matters worse she was penniless and couldn't pay his bill either. Frank sat back in his torn leather chair, put his dull oxfords up on his desk and tilted his fedora down. His head still ached, he needed the rest and there wasn't any work to be done.

No sooner had Frank gotten comfortable than he heard the unmistakable clip clop of high heels in the empty hallway outside his office. In the odd chance that this visitor intended to enlist Frank's services, he quickly sat up, fixed his hat and straightened out the files on his desk. The silhouette of a tall, buxom woman darkened the frosted glass to his office. The silhouette turned and the doorknob squealed as it rotated. Frank did his best to appear busy as the woman entered.

"Ah, excuse me..." the woman began, "are you Mr. Graves, the private investigator?"

Looking up from some month-old notes, Frank replied "I am. Please, come in and have a seat." He motioned to one of the two seats across from his desk and the woman quickly sat down. She was a tall woman, lean with gentle curves in the right places. She wore a tight fitting black dress with a matching, floppy, wide-brimmed sun hat. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes, but her face was angular with high cheek bones. Her hair was jet black and it cascaded over her tight, narrow shoulders. Her pursed, plump lips were painted with a dark hue that the sunlight from the office window revealed to be a deep shade of purple, but which would appear black in most light conditions. She was enchanting, but most importantly, she looked like she had money. She looked at him as though she were trying to figure out how to pose her request to him, but didn't know how, so Frank decided to start off with some induction. "You suspect foul play and you want me to find out what really happened?"

"What?" the woman replied. "Oh, I see. No, please don't take me for a widow. I have often been confused for a widow or some other mourner since moving here, but it's simply my mode of dress. My problem is much less somber."

"And what might that be, exactly?"

"Well, it's my husband. He's been spending a lot of time away from the house lately and I don't believe he's being entirely truthful about his whereabouts. His responses to my inquiries don't seem... honest."

"

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